The Comedian: There Goes the Neighborhood
by Baka Gaijin30
Summary: From Watchmen. Senator Ditko's daughter is kidnapped, and the F.B.I. have just the right man for the job of finding her- the Comedian. Rated for language, sex and violence.


Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Watchmen or the Comedian, so please don't sue me.

-Prologue-

-F.B.I. Headquarters, Washington D.C. 1963-

J. Edgar Hoover stood in his private office with a lit cigarette perched between his fingers as he watched the two goldfish in the small fishbowl swim lazily around their small environment. Looking up, he saw the American flag hanging from a vertical pole on a stand behind the fish bowl and smiled self-satisfactorily to himself as he took a drag off the cigarette, sucking the smoke down into his lungs and allowing it to escape through his nostrils.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. Going over to it, he pushed a button on the small box. "Yes Pattie?"

"Sir, a congressman Ditko is here to see you."

"Congressman Ditko?" Hoover asked, "I don't have any appointment with any congressman Ditko, do I?"

"No sir, but he is rather… persistent."

"Very well. Send him in," Hoover said. A few seconds later a small, middle aged balding man with glasses was ushered in by the F.B.I. Chief's secretary. Hoover took one look at the man standing before him and frowned. Somehow, he just knew his entire day was about to be completely shot to hell. "Congressman Ditko, is it?"

"Yes, sir. I'm the congressman from the Midwest district of…"

"Do you want any coffee?"

The congressman was taken off guard by being interrupted, "Sir, I…"

"Pattie," Hoover said as he opened the intercom on his desk once more, "Two coffees, cream and sugar."

"Yes sir."

"Now then," Hoover said, turning his attention once more to the man before him, "What do you need of me?"

"Well, Mr. Hoover sir, it's my daughter Bettie. She's… She's been kidnapped, and…"

"Kidnapped?" Hoover asked, "Isn't that a job for local law enforcement?"

"Well Mr. Hoover, I…"

"Was she transported across state lines?"

"What? I don't know if…"

"Look," Hoover said, trying to feign sympathy as he came over to the congressman, "I understand, really I do. I'm a family man myself. But the F.B.I. has its hands full at the moment dealing with organized crime and the Jewish-communist conspiracy in Hollywood. We don't have the time, resources or manpower to…"

"I see," congressman Ditko said, his demeanor suddenly changed as he reached angrily into his coat. "I'd hoped not to have to use this," he said as he pulled out a small photo and held it up to J. Edgar Hoover, adding "The negatives are back in my office."

Hoover looked at the photo and turned white. It was of himself, taken maybe ten years ago, at his private home. The head of the F.B.I. also recognized the flower-print dress he was wearing in the photo.

A knock on the door announced that the secretary had arrived with the coffee. Hoover quickly grabbed the photo and crumpled it up before stuffing it into his pants pocket as Pattie set the cups down on his desk and quickly scurried away. "Very well," Hoover finally said, his face turned red with rage and embarrassment, "We'll help you find your daughter."

Congressman Ditko shook his head. "I don't just want her found. I want the kidnappers to pay. I want them hurt. Hurt **bad**."

A malign smile slowly formed on J. Edgar Hoover's face. "In that case, I think I might just have the right man for the job in mind. Someone I first encountered back in WWII."

"A G-Man?"

"Not exactly," Hoover said, "But for the right price, he could be."

--

-The Comedian-

-In-

-There Goes the Neighborhood, Pt. 1-

Emily Parks did not like the term "madam."

Sure, she ran a brothel on the outskirts of the city, but she preferred to see herself as a business woman, a _liberated_ business woman in fact. And as she pulled her hand out of the pocket of her fur coat to once more check the time, she looked up to see the headlights of a dark blue car pull up towards her establishment.

"About fucking time," she mumbled as the group of thugs climbed out of the vehicle. Pulling out a cigarette, she mused with a chuckle that seeing the huge muscle-bound goons exiting the small car reminded her of clowns climbing out of a tiny circus car.

"He in there?" one of the men asked.

"Yeah," she said. "Follow me."

Business, that's all it was. It was good business to allow one of those "mystery men" types to come in every once and a while and have fun with her girls. Sure he was a little rough with some of them, but he left her alone and agreed to look the other way. The occasional black eye or sore wrist on one of her girls was nothing compared to litigation and unwanted attention a bust might bring her.

"This had better be legit, lady, or…"

"Shhh… keep your voice down."

It simply made good business sense. Unfortunately, it's hard to keep something like a brothel raking in cash with seemingly no police interference a secret, especially from the mob. If they wanted a cut, fine.

And if offering them the Comedian to take less of a cut worked, even better.

Business, that's all it was.

"He's up them stairs," she said, blowing out a smoke ring as she motioned to the door behind the reception desk. "Second floor, room eight. Remember the deal, no harm comes to the girl. I need her."

"Yeah, yeah, sure thing," the leader of the group said as he pushed past Parks and led the others to the foot of the stairs. Each of them, wearing matching black trench coats and brown fedoras, slowly began making their way up the stairs.

--

"Mnnn… N… no, not that, that's th… the wrong ho-o-o…"

"H… Heh, maybe I like this hole better."

She squirmed and squealed beneath him, the only thing on his body other than a sheen of sweat being the mask affixed around his eyes with gum Arabic. He grabbed the hair at the nape of her neck and yanked on it as he licked his lips.

"Comedian!"

The Comedian froze, the prostitute's hair still clenched in his fist as he turned to look at the door.

"Hey Comedian, get your ass out here now, bitch!"

The sound of a gun clicking was distinctly audible from the other side of the door. Pulling himself out of the young woman beneath him, he glared hatefully at her. "You fuckin' whore…"

"No, I swear, I…" before she could complete the sentence, the Comedian punched her hard in the back of her head. As she tumbled hard off the bed to the hardwood floor below, the Comedian looked over to the other side of the room where his costume (along with one or two weapons) was piled up on a small wooden folding chair. He cursed to himself, and was just about to make a dive for it from the bed to the chair, when a gunshot blast shot through the center of the door.

"Idiot!" a voice growled, "Why'd you shoot through the center?"

"Huh?"

"The doorknob, you fucking retard! Shoot the doorknob so we can get in."

As he quickly slid off the bed and made his way towards the door, the Comedian grinned. These were his kind of crooks; stupid.

A loud blast resounded, wood splinters and the smell of gunpowder filling the air as the doorknob fell to the floor with a loud clang. As the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun slowly came into the room through the doorjam, the Comedian grabbed it, yanking the thug through the door. A swift knee to the groin, and the gun was his.

"Bastard!"

The comedian turned to see the prostitute he'd just knocked to the ground now standing, stark naked, pointing a .38 at him. Funny, he thought, where'd she get that?

"I'll kill you!" she screamed. The Comedian quickly grabbed the thug's tie and used it to twirl him around and towards the prostitute, using him as a shield. As the gangster stumbled forward, she fired into him as the Comedian brought his newly acquired sawed-off up and blasted out into the doorway where the other mobsters were. As the first crook sank to his knees, the hero made it past the door, turning to now blast the prostitute away before finally reaching the other side of the room and his costume.

"Top of the world, mom!" he shouted out, ignoring the curses of the injured mobsters and the screams and frantic footsteps of the others in the bordello as he reached into his costume and pulled out a tear-gas grenade. "We're on top of the world!"

Pulling the pin, he threw it out into the hallway where it let off a small explosion, gas pouring out.

"Oh shit!"

"My eyes! (cough) God damn…"

"…fuck you up! You hear me Comedian? I'm gonna…"

The Comedian tossed another grenade out into the hallway, this one a real one though.

From outside the brothel Emily Parks jumped as she heard a loud explosion, followed by more smoke coming out of her place of business. As flames began to appear in the second story windows and her ladies and Johns ran for their lives out of the building, a single tear ran down her cheek. Her business was gone.

As she stood there in a near catatonic state watching her brothel burn, a lone figure made his way out just before the first story roof collapsed. The comedian adjusted his famous blue shoulder armor with its white star center as he made his way over to Emily. Turning away from the now sobbing madam, he pulled out a cigar, bit the tip off, and lit it.

"Damn shame," he said with a shake of his head. "She was the best fuck I've had in a long time." Turning around, he patted Emily Parks on the shoulder as he wandered off.

--

A few hours later, Edward Blake casually walked into the apartment building he called home, a large black suitcase hanging from his right hand. He wore a light brown overcoat, and his hat was tilted up, allowing for a glimpse of his whitening hair and roguishly handsome looks. Catching himself in one of the mirrors in the lobby, he smiled as he allowed himself to admire his Clark-Gable mustache before turning to go to the reception desk.

"Good morning Mr.Blake," the overly cheerful receptionist said as she saw him coming near.

"Morning, Sue," he answered back with a wink. Edward Blake was handsome, and he knew it. Tall, chiseled, well built. He almost felt sorry for the poor girl as she blushed at his attention. "Any mail for me?"

"Yes, right here. Oh," she said, pointing to something behind him, "And there's someone here who wishes to speak to you."

Edward raised an eyebrow at that. Turning around, he saw a rather bookish looking man dressed in black sitting in one of the lobby's lounge chairs watching him from behind a pair of sunglasses, and immediately took him for a government agent of some sort. With a frown, he walked over. "Hello."

"Hello, Mr. Blake," the man said, offering a hand as he stood and smiled at him. After Edward didn't take his hand to shake, and following an awkward silence, the man in black coughed a bit nervously. "Um, Mr. Blake, is there somewhere we can talk?"

Edward narrowed his eyes. "Follow me," he said, turning toward the elevator. The man quickly picked up his slim brown briefcase and followed.

Once the elevator doors closed behind then, Edward turned and glared at the agent. "Let me guess, C.I.A.?"

"Um, no sir, F.B.I. actually," the agent answered, noting nervously Edward Blake's build and how much shorter he was than the mustachioed man staring down at him.

"Same difference," Blake answered as he hit one of the floor buttons. You have 'till the count of five to make your sales pitch. After which, if I don't like it or I don't like you, I'll punch your face in and kick your god damned teeth down your throat. One."

"Huh? Oh, um, okay, we…"

"Two."

"We know that you're the Comedian, and…"

"Three."

"…we need you to help in a…"

"Four."

"…kidnapping case, and…"

"Fi…"

"**Three million dollars!**" the agent yelled out, closing his eyes in fear. After a few seconds, he opened them again to see Edward staring less threateningly at him.

"What was that?" Blake asked.

"W… well sir," the agent said as he tried to regain his composure, "I've been advised to forward three million dollars over to your account upon completion of the mission."

Edward scratched the side of his chin. "A kidnapping, huh?" he asked as the elevator let out a loud ding.

"Yes sir," the agent answered as the elevator doors swung open.

"I see… Come on, we can talk in my apartment. By the way," he said as the elevator doors began to slide closed behind them, "Is J. Edgar still wearing skirts?"

-To Be Continued-


End file.
